If Tears Were Wishes And Other Short Stories Read Online Free
Author: Ruth Nestvold
late.
****
Haley focused her camera on the relief of the expedition to Punt carved into the wall of the temple of Hatshepsut. It wasn't hieroglyphs, but it was a female pharaoh, and as such certainly within the bounds of her dissertation topic.
"Do you have a photography permit?" a deep voice with an Arabic accent asked.
Irritated, she rose and turned, only to see a mischievous smile beneath dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes.
"I don't need one here, only in the tombs."
The smile grew wider. "True! But if you would move aside, I could explain the reliefs to these ladies and gentlemen."
Haley glanced behind him and saw a horde of sweating tourists, sun-glassed and sun-hatted, gazing wide-eyed at the interchange between her and their tour guide.
She nodded. She could return to the expedition to Punt when he was done. Setting her own sun-glasses back on her nose, Haley moved out of the shade of the terrace portico and into the glaring light of the late February sun. Sweat was gathering at the back of her neck, and she lifted her dark hair up, wishing she had pins to knot it as she had yesterday while exploring the Valley of Kings. The walls of the desert rose above the walls of the mausoleum, blending in shades of sand and brown and gold, integrated by the will of a queen and her lover over three thousand years ago. Haley could hardly believe she was here, finally, after years of studying the monuments from afar and saving to visit the land of her dreams — a whole month at the Institute.
Here — in Egypt, with its donkey carts and palm trees, its men in their galabia of white or blue, its women in abaya of black. In the bus from the airport last week, Haley had felt tears start at the back of her eyes and in her throat, it was so different and exotic, so obvious she was somewhere totally outside her own experience.
One of the small, ubiquitous sandy dogs sniffed her feet. Haley was bending over to pet it when she began to feel faint. Dizzy, she leaned her hand on a column for support.
Blood. Blood everywhere, blood and screams. Cries for help, Hilfe, tasoketeh, au secours . A little boy, crying, begging for his life in German, gunned down by men in Egyptian police uniforms. At her feet, a blonde woman, dead eyes staring into the bright morning sky, a round, red hole in her forehead ...
"Madam! Madam, you are not supposed to touch!"
Slowly, the vision of blood faded. Haley looked up to see the tour guide who had teased her earlier. She gagged and covered her mouth as he put his arm around her shoulders, calling out to the group of curious tourists, " Ist hier ein Arzt ?"
"I think you have been in the sun too much," the young Egyptian said to her as he led her back to the protection of the temple portico.
Haley nodded. She didn't feel like confessing to a horrendously vivid daydream of the terrorist massacre here years before. Heatstroke was a much saner excuse.
"Here, drink," a plump, graying woman said with a German accent.
"Thank you." Haley took the bottle of water and drank, trying to push aside the images of blood and death that still clung at the edges of her vision. She handed the bottle back and wiped away the sweat beading her forehead. "I'm fine now."
The tour guide shook his head. "No, you come with us, we bring you back to your hotel when we are done with the first emancipated woman in the world."
Haley heaved a sigh of relief. After a vision like that, she would feel better with someone taking care of her, someone to catch her if she fell again, someone to keep the shadows of blood at bay. "Okay, as long as you let me take pictures."
The tour guide turned to his troop with a look of triumph, and they clapped and smiled, happy to take her under their wing.
Haley pulled away from the arm enclosing her but didn't protest when he took her elbow. He was being a gentleman, and she still felt weak. She hoped she wasn't committing a cultural sin by allowing him to touch her arm; she always dressed
****
Haley focused her camera on the relief of the expedition to Punt carved into the wall of the temple of Hatshepsut. It wasn't hieroglyphs, but it was a female pharaoh, and as such certainly within the bounds of her dissertation topic.
"Do you have a photography permit?" a deep voice with an Arabic accent asked.
Irritated, she rose and turned, only to see a mischievous smile beneath dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes.
"I don't need one here, only in the tombs."
The smile grew wider. "True! But if you would move aside, I could explain the reliefs to these ladies and gentlemen."
Haley glanced behind him and saw a horde of sweating tourists, sun-glassed and sun-hatted, gazing wide-eyed at the interchange between her and their tour guide.
She nodded. She could return to the expedition to Punt when he was done. Setting her own sun-glasses back on her nose, Haley moved out of the shade of the terrace portico and into the glaring light of the late February sun. Sweat was gathering at the back of her neck, and she lifted her dark hair up, wishing she had pins to knot it as she had yesterday while exploring the Valley of Kings. The walls of the desert rose above the walls of the mausoleum, blending in shades of sand and brown and gold, integrated by the will of a queen and her lover over three thousand years ago. Haley could hardly believe she was here, finally, after years of studying the monuments from afar and saving to visit the land of her dreams — a whole month at the Institute.
Here — in Egypt, with its donkey carts and palm trees, its men in their galabia of white or blue, its women in abaya of black. In the bus from the airport last week, Haley had felt tears start at the back of her eyes and in her throat, it was so different and exotic, so obvious she was somewhere totally outside her own experience.
One of the small, ubiquitous sandy dogs sniffed her feet. Haley was bending over to pet it when she began to feel faint. Dizzy, she leaned her hand on a column for support.
Blood. Blood everywhere, blood and screams. Cries for help, Hilfe, tasoketeh, au secours . A little boy, crying, begging for his life in German, gunned down by men in Egyptian police uniforms. At her feet, a blonde woman, dead eyes staring into the bright morning sky, a round, red hole in her forehead ...
"Madam! Madam, you are not supposed to touch!"
Slowly, the vision of blood faded. Haley looked up to see the tour guide who had teased her earlier. She gagged and covered her mouth as he put his arm around her shoulders, calling out to the group of curious tourists, " Ist hier ein Arzt ?"
"I think you have been in the sun too much," the young Egyptian said to her as he led her back to the protection of the temple portico.
Haley nodded. She didn't feel like confessing to a horrendously vivid daydream of the terrorist massacre here years before. Heatstroke was a much saner excuse.
"Here, drink," a plump, graying woman said with a German accent.
"Thank you." Haley took the bottle of water and drank, trying to push aside the images of blood and death that still clung at the edges of her vision. She handed the bottle back and wiped away the sweat beading her forehead. "I'm fine now."
The tour guide shook his head. "No, you come with us, we bring you back to your hotel when we are done with the first emancipated woman in the world."
Haley heaved a sigh of relief. After a vision like that, she would feel better with someone taking care of her, someone to catch her if she fell again, someone to keep the shadows of blood at bay. "Okay, as long as you let me take pictures."
The tour guide turned to his troop with a look of triumph, and they clapped and smiled, happy to take her under their wing.
Haley pulled away from the arm enclosing her but didn't protest when he took her elbow. He was being a gentleman, and she still felt weak. She hoped she wasn't committing a cultural sin by allowing him to touch her arm; she always dressed
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